


Another Story to Tell

by stenbros



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Canon - Book, Canon Compliant, F/M, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, like really guys i think it's pretty sad, reference to stan's suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2019-02-12 06:03:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12952920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stenbros/pseuds/stenbros
Summary: Bill has a lot of thoughts, but normally he doesn't say them.Instead, he spends his time writing about what he feels, and it's not until later that he regrets not saying everything he wanted to.





	Another Story to Tell

Bill knows what it means when he sees Stan in town out with a girl he doesn’t know. He knows what it means when he and Stan only kiss when they’re home alone and up in Bill’s room. He knows what it means when they’re holding hands in the theater and Stan lets go when the screen flashes too brightly. And Bill knows what it means when he falls asleep in Stan’s arms, even when Stan is always gone by the time the sun comes up.

 

Bill doesn’t say anything when he and Stan see the same movie, but instead of being together, Stan is out with Patty, whose name he now knows because Bill made the effort of bumping into Stan to say hi. He doesn’t say anything when he sees Stan walking her home or kissing her on the cheek. 

 

It’s not that Stan doesn’t love him, because he does, and despite everything that Bill hates, the other things are actually quite good. The hidden kisses, late night talks, and Barren dates. Acting a little too close in front of their friends. Kissing when no one’s looking. Bill doesn’t think he can complain, because he’s lucky he’s got as much as he has.

 

Bill writes instead, and most of the stories end up locked in the bottom drawer of his desk. Bill writes everything that he would say if he wasn’t so in love with Stan and content to keep it secret because he knows that’s what Stan needs. 

 

Bill writes, and sometimes he writes things specifically for sticking in Stan’s locker or in between his books or underneath his pillow. He doesn’t say anything about Stan hiding them in the box in the back of his closet, or the fact that he always has to write them just vague enough so that only the two of them can really understand. It bothers him, especially because he likes his writing to be clear-cut and easy, but he doesn’t ever say anything about that either.

 

Bill knows it’s all about loving right, because Stan is set on doing it, but Bill is also aware that there’s nothing necessarily wrong with them being in love. Bill is confused, because he thinks that their love is pretty right, and Stan just can’t seem to see it. He loves Stan, and he wishes that was enough for him, but it isn’t, because the world isn’t just the two of them, and there are expectations Stan is set on meeting. 

 

Bill doesn’t mention anything when Stan starts coming over more and more with the losers and less on his own, and Bill doesn’t say anything about it when he and Stan finally hang out together alone because he’s got better things to do when Stan decides to finally come around. When he kisses Stan, it’s easy to pretend that the bad things don’t exist, so he does. 

 

He doesn’t say anything when the next day he comes across Stan and Patty, and Stan refers to Bill as his best friend. It’s a small demotion, because Bill knows how much Stan loves his friends, but it still hurts because they’re actually so much more than that. 

 

Bill doesn’t say anything when Stan starts inviting Patty to join them during the times they still manage to do things together, times when they used to try to be alone and steal kisses when no one was watching. Patty joins them, and Stan sets about to make her laugh instead of Bill, and Bill realizes she’s slowly taking his place. Bill doesn’t say anything about Patty either, because it turns out she’s pretty cool.

 

Stan has plenty to say, though, when Bill tells him his father found a story on his desk and demanded an explanation. It was careless, Bill knows it was, but it didn’t have any names, and thank  _ god  _ it wasn’t explicit. Bill only outed himself in the process, and he and his father have come to a staunch agreement to not talk about it. It could be a lot worse, Bill tells Stan, especially if his father had discovered the locked drawer of more intimate stories. It could have been worse- way, way worse, but Stan thinks it’s bad enough. Stan has plenty to say about it, a lot of which is about being careless, and when he doesn’t stay over that night, Bill is a little broken hearted over it.

 

They still kiss now, but almost only as goodbyes, and Stan doesn’t come around half as often. He’s uncomfortable making out, and he even flinches once when Bill puts his hand on his stomach, and Bill can’t help but notice Stan sits a little further away from him now. Bill doesn’t mention it, and he doesn’t mention it when it gets worse after Bill comes out to his friends. It’s self-preservation, and Bill can’t really blame Stan for it.

 

And because Bill is in the habit of not saying things, he doesn’t say anything when Stan takes Patty to prom, and he doesn’t say anything when he realizes that Stan hangs out with Patty way more than he ever hangs out with Bill. He doesn’t say anything when Stan stops touching him altogether, and when their kisses are only things that happen in Bill’s head. And when he comes home one day and finds a neatly packed box of stories left on his bed with a small apology note, Bill determines that it’s over.

 

Bill doesn’t say anything, because he understands. And he hates that he does, and he hates that he doesn’t say anything about being so hurt over it either. They never really labeled it, but Bill had always thought they were on the same page, even when it started to become evident that they weren’t.

 

Bill’s not exactly surprised when Stan eventually stops coming around by himself altogether, and no one says anything when Bill starts hanging out with Eddie and Richie a little too much more than they’d prefer (not that they’d tell him so) and crying when he doesn’t think anyone else is paying attention. No one says anything when he starts hanging out with Bev, because she doesn’t mind him crying into her chest on his bad days, even if it means calling off plans with Ben. And no one says anything when he starts going on long walks with Mike, crawling inside through his bedroom window because it’s too late and his parents got tired of waiting up and locked the back door. 

 

And then Bill doesn’t have to say anything about it at all, because his friends hardly ever hang out together anymore. 

 

Bill supposes it all started when Stan started drifting away from him, and Bill hates that he can pinpoint the moment their group started to crumble, because if he just hadn’t been so careless, Stan would still be here and so would his friends. Bill knows he’s lying to himself, knows it would have all happened anyways, but Bill wants to think that there was a point when he and Stan could’ve continued through it all together. Blaming himself is easier than admitting the inevitable, so he that’s just what he does.

 

When Bill starts college, their group has long since started to fracture and break apart, and no one seems surprised when they all go different places, and no one says anything about it. Bill doesn’t even know what colleges his friends have gone to. Bill’s not even sure if he can any longer accurately call them that. 

 

College is good. Bill goes back to what he’s always done, and he writes, and he tries to get his stories into magazines because if he can focus on getting something done, then he doesn’t have to think about everything and everyone he’s lost. And they’re not love stories anymore, not any of his thoughts he has to lock away either, and they’re not the stories he slips into Stan’s bedroom or locker anymore. They’re dark, and they’re gory, and they’re twisted, and Bill rather thinks they’re a lot like him. 

 

And then, a few months later, Bill drops his creative writing honors class, even though it messes up his major and his credits and sets him back a bit, but he doesn’t really care. And it’s not really about Stan this time, even though he only started writing again because of Stan, so maybe he’s forgotten him a little bit like he wanted to. Forgotten, that is, until he goes home for the summer and slowly remembers every painful thing again.

 

And that’s why Bill is surprised one day when he gets home, and Stan is waiting on his doorstep. They haven’t spoken in a while, and Bill knows it’s actually been quite a bit longer than that, probably at least a year, despite that he’s thought of him nearly every day, and Stan looks just as hurt and sad as Bill is, and Bill hates that he understands how Stan can be hurt too, because Bill feels like he’s the one that’s been wronged. Bill hates even more that he just accepts the hurt and sadness as inevitable now, regardless of who’s at fault or who’s to blame. 

 

“Hi,” Stan says, and that’s enough to knock the breath out of Bill’s chest because he just now realizes that he’s missed Stan’s voice. He’s missed quite a bit more than just his voice, but they haven’t been together for so long, Bill doesn’t think that’s an appropriate thought to have.

 

Bill doesn’t stutter anymore, not really, but suddenly it’s back and it’s too difficult to say anything. A swarm of messed up _ h _ ’s and Bill opts to simply just nod in greeting instead. Bill’s not sure if Stan knows it’s not normal for him to speak like this anymore, and he’s crushed because it doesn’t feel like it’s been that long.  

 

Stan bites his lip, and Bill has to glance a little bit past him because there’s a weight on his chest. “I’m sorry,” Stan says, and Bill thinks he feels a tear trickle down his cheek, but he doesn’t really feel present enough to try and wipe it away.

 

“Muh-me too,” Bill replies. He brings his hand to the back of his neck and looks out over the lawn, because he can tell Stan is hurting too, and Bill doesn’t want to force Stan to see him cry.

 

Stan is quiet for a minute or two, but Bill doesn’t notice because time stopped making sense to him a while ago. 

 

“I’m engaged,” Stan says, and Bill can feel his heart finally splinter to pieces, but he’s not surprised over either of those things. They were both coming, and Bill knows he couldn’t have prevented either, but part of him still hopes- or wishes, rather, that maybe his past self could’ve done something to stop the future in its tracks and create something better.   
  
Bill looks at Stan again, and Stan is crying too, and Bill’s not sure if that makes things better or just worse. “Mazel tov,” he says quietly.  _ I wish you the best _ , and Stan scoffs a little. 

 

“Bill-”

 

“It’s okay, Stan,” Bill says. “It’s  _ all _ okay.” 

 

And then Bill steps closer and kisses Stan on the lips even though he doesn’t expect Stan to kiss him back, and he doesn’t. 

 

When Bill steps back, he covers his mouth with his hand to keep back a sob. 

 

“Mazel tov, Stan,” Bill says again, quieter and more genuine, and then he heads inside, and he’s not sure how long Stan stands out there on his porch, and Bill’s not sure if he should even care. When he’s in his room, he sits down at his typewriter, but instead of writing, he just cries. 

 

When the wedding invitation comes a few months later, Bill’s shaken into the reality that he’s not okay as he thought he was beginning to be. He forgets to RSVP, even though the invitation asks him to, but he calls up Patty the day before the wedding, and she tells him, of course, he can come. When she picks up, she offers to get Stan, but he tells her not to bother. 

 

Bill skips a day of college classes to go to the wedding, and he ends up wearing a suit he hasn’t worn since Christmas, and the time before that must have been that stupid prom in high school, when he was upset that Stan took Patty instead of sneaking off with him. Bill hates that that was recent enough for him to have barely grown, let alone need a new size, because that makes it all feel like it happened too shortly ago, and it doesn’t seem like he should still be this hurt. He tries not to think about it, because if he thinks about it too much, he’s pretty sure he’ll back out of going to the wedding after all. 

 

Bill’s never been to a wedding, let alone a Jewish one, so he sticks to the sidelines because he’s not really sure what he’s expected to do. It’s a beautiful wedding, and Bill supposes he hates that a little bit, until he sees Patty’s smile and the way Stan looks at her like maybe he’s in love after all, and even though Bill thinks his heart has been crushed to fine powder, he manages the strength to wish them the best. 

 

“Bill!” Stan sounds so surprised when he sees him, and Bill’s not sure if he’s relieved or upset that Patty didn’t mention he was coming. 

 

“Stan,” Bill replies in greeting, and the name comes easily to him. It feels comfortable, more comfortable than anything he’s felt for a while now.    
  


“I’m huh-happy for you,” Bill adds, and he’s surprised when he realizes he thinks it must be true. He hates everything that’s happened, but he doesn’t ever want Stan to be anything less than happy. That may be the only thing he’s really sure of. “Fuh-for both of you. I huh-hope things are guh-good. I hope yuh-you’re huh-happy.”

 

“Bill,” Patty says, and Bill’s gaze seems to get lost in trying to find her. She reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder, and Bill feels more grounded than he has in a long time. She pushes his hair away from his eyes, and Bill’s heart hurts because it’s something he’s used to Stan doing. “Thank you,” she says. 

 

When Bill looks at her, he thinks that maybe she’s thanking him for more than just his wishes of happiness. He thinks maybe she knows what he’s giving up, and he hugs her then. 

 

And then Bill hugs Stan, and he thinks he feels Stan briefly stroke his hair and whisper something that Bill can’t quite make out, and Bill mutters  _ I love you _ as a reply into Stan’s chest, and he knows that Stan hears it, but neither of them say anything when Bill steps away. 

 

“Mazel tov,” Bill says, and this time, Stan doesn’t seem so hurt when he says it.

 

Bill starts to walk away, but Stan catches his hand before he can. He doesn’t say anything, but he squeezes Bill’s hand before letting go. There are no more words exchanged, but maybe that’s enough. It doesn’t fix anything, but it feels a little bit like closure, something more official and mutual than an apology and box of papers. 

 

And then college starts again, and Bill has to start moving on all over again. He starts to bury himself in writing, like he’s always done, and it’s not perfect, but it’s a constant in his life, and by the time senior year is over, he’s got a book finished too. He thinks he’s sad, but he’s normally too busy to think about it. 

 

A little later on, and Bill can’t quite exactly remember what he’s so torn apart over. 

 

And then his book is published, and then slowly, there’s a list of books he’s had published, and a movie, and he’s forgotten everything, and he’s married now too, even though Audra’s a movie star and no one thinks it’ll last, not even his parents. There was a smug phone call from his father when their marriage was mentioned on the television though, and something in Bill’s past struggles to surface, something about an argument he once had, but he doesn’t remember what it was about. A relationship of some sort or something, but Bill doesn’t dwell on it. He doesn’t have reason to. 

 

And Bill thinks he must really, really be happy. 

 

There’s a honeymoon, and then there’s a house, and then there’s more writing, and there’s traveling while Audra films, and he’s busy, so very busy. He’s so busy he doesn’t ever have to stop and analyze the moments where he feels anything less than overjoyed. 

 

Bill doesn’t expect a letter. 

 

He doesn’t, because Stan is a memory he barely thinks of anymore. There’s no face that comes to mind when he hears the name. But the name pulls at the back of his mind when he sees it, so he takes the letter into his office, and when he’s done reading it, there are emotions pulling at his chest which he hasn’t felt in years, and he doesn’t exactly remember what happened, but he remembers being together. Or at least partially together, at some point in time. 

 

Except it’s not a love letter. 

 

It doesn’t even read as if Stan was ever aware they were in love. (And were they ever really?) Stan addresses him as an old friend, and he’s read Bill’s books, and he finds that he misses Bill, and that he thinks fondly of him.

 

_ … I miss you…  _ isn’t the full sentence, and maybe it’s not the full thought either, but it’s enough for Bill to write back. 

 

And then, three months later, it’s grown from a letter and a response to a regular correspondence. Bill’s not quite in love, not really, but he thinks about Stan with a fondness that finally makes him feel at peace. 

 

Stan’s read every story he’s ever written, even tracked down all the short stories published in crappy magazines, and Bill finds himself sending him a manuscript that’s not even through publishing. When it finally is, inside the front page it reads  _ this one’s for Stan, a very dear, old friend.  _ The critics will say it’s one of his best horror stories.

 

Bill sends Stan the unpublished book, and a letter that’s not quite flirtatious, because Bill knows that they’re both married and both very happy, even though Bill doubts that second one sometimes. He knows he shouldn’t send the letter, knows maybe it’s a little too much, that addressing it as  _ dearest Stan  _ and signing  _ all my love, Bill  _ is perhaps pushing things a little further than he should, but he does it anyways. He feels a little guilty, for Audra’s sake, and for Stan’s, and even Patty’s, but he’s in a little too deep. He doesn’t say he’s in love, doesn’t think he’s allowed to, but part of him knows otherwise. He doesn’t say it outright, even though he thinks Stan must have caught on by now, must have remembered something about what they once were, and sometimes, Bill rereads Stan’s letters in hopes that he’ll come across a phrase and realize that it’s a feeling that’s mutual. He doesn’t, though, and Bill decides that must be for the best. 

 

Stan doesn’t write back. 

 

Bill’s not sure if he hasn’t read it, or if he’s said too much, or if something happened, but he doesn’t really think about it. Their letters come and go, sometimes with months in between, and Bill thinks he will come home from England and find that a letter from his good friend somehow didn’t get redirected to his address in England while he’s working on writing his first actual film. Bill will finally receive the letter, and then he’ll write back, and it’ll all go on in the way that’s become normal.  

 

Except Stan doesn’t write back.

 

And that is that. 

 

Or at least, Bill thinks it is, until  _ IT _ happens, and Bill finds him and Audra visiting Patty to attend a funeral. 

 

The day before the funeral, Bill leaves Audra at their hotel, and he drives through a neighborhood he doesn’t know, and stops in front of a house he hasn’t seen before. It’s the address Patty gave him on the phone, and he cries when she opens the door to a house Stan doesn’t live in anymore.

 

After pained greetings and too much talk for Bill’s liking, he finally asks what’s really on his mind. “Cuh-c-can I see thuh-the-” he doesn’t have to finish, because Patty already knows what he’s trying to say.    
  
Patty leads him upstairs, and she opens a door that creaks loudly when she opens it, and Bill thinks she hasn’t been in there for a while, not since it happened. 

 

The tub isn’t there anymore. 

 

At least, it’s not the same one. The new one is barely used, and Bill understands why, but the room still looks wrong. Bill stands there, and he stares, and he can’t move or speak because all he is is hollow. 

 

Patty stands in the doorway for a while, but Bill doesn’t really see her there. “Will you leave the door open?” she asks finally, and when he nods mutely, he thinks he hears her choke back a sob. “I’ll make you some coffee,” she tells him, and then she leaves him be. 

 

The wall has been cleaned, but there’s a spot where Bill can still see the faint outline of the word:  _ IT.  _ He walks over, and he places his hand up against it, and he traces it with his finger, imagining Stan doing the same, smearing blood against the wall, and then he sits down in that stupid, stupid tub and leans back and stays there for an amount of time that stretches on for so long, it seems like years. He contemplates running the water, imagines staying there till he falls asleep and the water turns cold, but he can’t bring himself to do it. 

 

Bill lies there, his head turned to stare at the place on the wall, and he recalls every moment. He remembers past all the half-memories he’s started recalling over the time of his correspondence, and he’s so, so in love. It washes over him with such certainty and force that he feels as if he’s fallen in an ocean and the waves just won’t stop coming and pushing him further and further under the water. He brings up his knees to his chest, and he breaks into sobs that rake through his entire body. Bill thinks he can’t breathe, but it’s a relief to stop trying to act as if he can, as if that’s even possible without Stan being here.  

 

“Bill?” It’s Patty again, and Bill startles, and he feels her put a hand on his shoulder, and he remembers suddenly something very like this happening before, but it didn’t feel so devastating back then.

 

“I luh-love huh-him,” Bill chokes out. He waits for Patty to withdraw her hand in disgust, but it never comes. 

 

“I know,” Patty says, and it occurs to Bill that this is incredibly unfair to her. Stan isn’t his to mourn like this, he thinks. Bill hears her climb into the tub across from him, feels her leg press against his, but his vision is too blurred to really see her. “He loved you too.” 

 

“Pat-”

 

“It’s not a lie, Bill,” Patty cuts in, and then she’s quiet for a moment. “It’s okay.”

 

“Buh-b-but Auh-dru-druh,” Bill sniffs. He’s married, he reminds himself. And he loves her, he really does, but his feelings weren’t ever as clean cut and simple as he wanted them to be. He only ever wanted Stan to love him the way Bill loves him still, but that wasn’t ever really an option, and Bill had thought for a while that maybe he’d finally moved on the same way Stan had so, so long ago. 

 

“It’s okay, Bill,” Patty says again, and she says it so firmly, and neither of them says anything else. Bill’s not sure how long they stay like this, but she doesn’t leave him until he’s finally stopped crying. He stops crying, and there’s no emotions left for him to express, but he’s grateful, and he doesn’t say anything, but he thinks Patty knows. 

 

Bill doesn’t sleep that night, and he doesn’t make it back to his hotel either. Patty calls Audra for him and says he’s in no condition to drive. When Audra offers to pick him up, Patty declines and suggests it’s better if maybe he stays here.

 

Halfway through the night, Bill leaves the guest room and walks through the house, envisioning it as if he might find Stan late night reading in any room he walks into. His breath catches in his chest whenever he opens a door, but of course, Stan is never there. 

 

Bill grabs a notebook from the Uris’ office, and he sneaks back up to the restroom and sits in the tub and writes. He writes, just the way he used to, about everything he wanted to say but wouldn’t, except now it’s the things he wants to say but knows he can’t, because Stan is dead.  _ Dead _ . It sits heavy on his chest. 

 

The next morning, when Bill finally comes downstairs, Audra and Patty sit at the table, talking over coffee. Audra frowns at him. Patty gives him a small smile. 

 

“Bill-” Audra starts, and the concern in her voice if enough to once again move him to tears. She holds him, there in the kitchen, and he cries into her shoulder and lets her stroke his hair. He loves her, he really does, and Bill’s knows none of this is fair to her. Bill knows he needs to just let go, but he doesn’t think he can.  

 

At the funeral, it's worse. It's so much worse, and no one cries half as much as he does, but Patty holds on to his one arm and Audra the other, and somehow he makes it through. 

 

Stan is dead, and it's the only thought that passes through Bill’s head. He's dead, he's dead, he's  _ dead,  _ and all Bill can do is stare at the body that doesn't look like Stan and yet looks the exact same since the last time Bill saw him. 

 

When the viewing is over, and the casket is closed, Bill panics, and Audra has to take him outside, and he keeps saying things that don't make sense but all translate into  _ loss. _ His sentences aren't coherent, and somewhere in his mind, he thinks he must be terrifying Audra, and yet she holds him anyways. 

 

They stay there in Georgia for a week, and then Bill tells Audra he wants to stay, and he postpones all his work, and Patty invites them to stay at her house instead of the hotel because it's empty and it's driving her crazy. Bill doesn’t intend to stay too long, but it’s too short a time when it starts to feel like he and Audra belong in this place with Patty. 

 

It’s one night, when Bill’s sitting alone in what he supposes was Stan’s office, when he comes across the letters in Stan’s file cabinet.  _ His _ letters, tucked inside a manilla folder behind all sorts of financial papers. Bill reads each of them that night, and he wonders if Stan knew that Bill never really got over him. He wonders if Stan thought fondly back to the times when they were together, if he ever remembered at all. If he ever forgot in the first place.

 

“You should get some sleep, Bill,” Audra says, and Bill swings around to face her, because he thought he’d left their bed without waking her up. He feels so, so guilty, because here he is crying over someone else, and she’s quietly and passively waiting for him to love her like he should. 

 

“Yuh-y-you duh-don’t deserve thuh-this,” Bill says quietly. “I luh-love him. Muh-more than I should.”

 

Audra shakes her head slightly. She walks up to him, and she takes a letter out of his hand and places it on the desk without even looking at it, and Bill thinks he’s grateful for that. He doesn’t want her heart to break over reading his letters, the way his did when he reread everything Stan returned in that box he used to hide in his closet, all the stories and things Bill wrote especially for him. Audra puts her hands on Bill’s shoulders and looks straight into his eyes. “Love isn’t a bad thing, Bill.” 

 

Except Bill shakes his head. “It’s nuh-not right, not fuh-hair to you or- or Patty,” he says quietly. He drops his gaze downward. He doesn’t want her to love him, because she shouldn’t have to, not when he thinks he loves someone else. “I- I’ve alwuh-wuh-ways loved him, but huh-he wuh-was always Puh-patty’s more than mine.”

 

“You don’t need to compare love,” Audra insists. She moves her hand to his cheek and presses her forehead against his. Bill knows she’s telling him that it’s all okay, that he doesn’t have to apologize or change anything he feels, and Bill wonders briefly why he can’t just love her right. 

 

Bill closes his eyes. It occurs to him then, that he never said goodbye. He walked off, that day at the wedding, and he never said goodbye. He  _ left,  _ and he didn’t say a word. He tries wildly to remember what the last thing Stan ever said to him was, and he remembers a phrase he couldn’t understand, and for some reason, not knowing that phrase makes him feel worse. It makes Stan seem further away. 

 

Audra holds him a long time that night, and then again the night after that, and the next day, when she finds Bill sitting in the bathtub and staring at the wall, she climbs in the same way Patty had, and she stays there without saying anything. They do a lot of that, just sitting, and Bill doesn’t speak much, but he always stutters when he does. Time stretches on, and the stutter doesn’t get any better. 

 

And then it’s been so long, Bill’s publisher threatens to drop him, and Bill’s told he has to come out with a book within four months, or else they’ll terminate his contract. Bill tells Audra this one day when they’re sitting in the tub, and he tells her that he’s all out of horror. He says he can’t come up with anything darker than what he’s gone through. He has words, but he doesn’t know how they go together anymore. 

 

Audra’s response is easy, when she tells him to write something else then. 

 

So he does. 

 

He writes, and he supposes it’s really about him and Stan, about everything he’s always felt and never said. Except this version has a happy ending, and Bill thinks it’s the best book he’s written yet.

 

Audra helps him with it, and Patty does too, and he writes a lot sitting in that restroom with the door open, always in the bathtub, but never with water in it, and sometimes Patty joins him, and sometimes it’s Audra, but mostly it’s just him. Him, and the presence of Stan he swears he can feel in that one spot. 

 

Bill finishes his book three days before the deadline, and when he sends it to his agent, he’s warned that this isn’t a story he should try and get published. It’s not conventional, it’s not a horror story, and it’s about two men in love. Bill tells his agent it’s the only story he’s got, even though he’s told that this could ruin his career and his reputation, and possibly Audra’s too. Audra takes the phone then and tells him to fuck off. 

 

It doesn’t get through publishing, though. It doesn’t, because Bill’s told it doesn’t meet the guidelines in his contract, but Bill refuses to write anything else. He tries submitting it to a few other places, and each time it’s declined, but Bill doesn’t really care. It’s his story, and it might not be good, but it’s his. And that’s enough. It’s a year before anyone offers to publish the book, and it’s a terrible deal, but Bill takes it anyways. It doesn’t sell well, and Bill doesn’t care about that either.

 

Bill buys one copy, and he carries it to the graveyard. He hasn’t been there before, but he thinks he’s ready now. He sits at the edge of Stan’s grave, across from the headstone, and he flips past the title page until he reaches the dedication, and then he starts to read aloud. 

 

_ For Stan. _

_ I love you. _

_ I always will.  _


End file.
